


Diamond in the Rough

by The_Moss_Stomper



Series: Complex Harmonic Motion [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Action, Captivity, Escape, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Pre-Game(s), Survival Horror, Swearing, Torture, Violence, more like the hurt that came before the comfort of Monochrome Humans, poor lil teen Reno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Moss_Stomper/pseuds/The_Moss_Stomper
Summary: Young Reno thought he could outsmart anyone. He thought he had luck on his side. That's why he's now tied to a chair and surrounded by a vengeful gang.





	Diamond in the Rough

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to write an extended action scene. It turned out pretty brutal. o_O
> 
> A one-shot describing a grueling escape, a.k.a. the hurt that came before the comfort of _Monochrome Humans_. Rated M for foul language, threats and graphic violence, including some torture.

Things are not so good.

Reno sits in a chair with his hands tied behind his back. He is shirtless, helpless, teetering on the brink of hopeless. The pungent stench of mold and sweat makes him gag, but it's the rust of old blood that turns his stomach. In the gloom of the single bulb dangling above him, all he can see are vicious faces, grinning and jeering all around him.

One face is closer than the rest. The shape of it is drawn with broad, heavy strokes, but the button nose and close-set eyes might fit better on a kid. This incongruous face belongs to a hulk of a man called Hanz, who paces back and forth in front of him. There's no rush to his movements, no urgency. Reno isn't going anywhere, and this guy knows it. He revels in it.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that. Not much in the way of brains since you tried to steal from me, but plenty of guts."

His speech smooths out all the rough angles of his words. The guy isn't Midgar-born; Reno can tell that much, but he doesn't recognize the accent. Nothing unusual about that. You get all sorts below the plate.

"And now I have to cut them out of you. Shame really, but you know how it is. Have to set an example."

He grins, showing a row of stubby teeth, but Reno is more interested in what he's got in his hand. It's a black handle, about as long as the width of the guy's burly palm. The simple bands in polished steel at each end glint in the light. As he watches, a blade springs out with a soft click. Reno's stomach lurches.

"First, though," Hanz says, "we're gonna have a little chat."

He flicks his wrist. The knife spins in the air, its tip drawing a single perfect circle before he catches it again. He makes it look easy.

"How old are you anyway, kid? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"The fuck does it matter?" Reno's voice is rough, his throat raw. He hasn't had anything to drink since they dumped him in this basement.

"It doesn't, really," Hanz says with a shrug. "I'm just curious to know what kind of runt managed to screw over my second-hand man."

"Did you just call me a runt, dickface?"

Hanz backhands Reno hard enough to smack his head into his shoulder. The pain hits him a second later, flaring within his cheek like a red-hot sun. As he lifts his head, the taunts and laughter of their audience ring in his ears.

The man paces, a swagger in his step as he cleans his fingernails with the knife. A faint smile plays on his lips as he glances over at Reno, though it comes nowhere near his eyes.

"You don't want to be here, _runt_ , and I don't want to waste my time on you. Let's make a deal, eh? You give me a name, and I let you walk out of here."

"A name?" Reno spits, tasting blood. The punch must have opened up the cut one of his captors left on his lip. "What name?"

"Who are you working with?"

"Who says I'm working with anyone?"

"A shit-stain like you couldn't come up with a plan like this on your own. You don't have the brains."

Hanz laughs at his own remark; a chuckle that sets off a rumbling echo from his flunkies. The sound crawls under Reno's skin.

"Fuck you, man!" He lunges forward, ignoring the bite of the rope around his wrists. "You don't know who you're messing with!"

"That so?"

The man leans forward until his face is level with Reno's. Without breaking eye contact, he flips the knife around in his hand and plunges it into Reno's thigh.

"Who exactly am I messing with?"

Reno doesn't answer. He ignores the guffaws around him. He just stares at the thing poking out of his leg, trying to figure out if it's real or not. He can see it's there, sticking up at a slight angle. He can see the handle and about two inches of the blade. He only felt a pinch as it went in. He knows the pain will come, but right now it's sort of numb.

It's just... surreal. He's been stabbed before, in dirty brawls behind bars and alley muggings. It's been quick and ugly and chaotic. Not like this. Hanz stands before him with his hands on his hips, watching his face. Eyebrows raised, a slight squint. The freak is just standing there, _studying_ him.

"Answer me, runt."

Hanz's velvety-smooth voice oozes its way into Reno's ears as the blood oozes out of his thigh. The sight of red blossoming through the fabric of his jeans brings back the fear.

"G-Get that fucking thing outta my leg!"

Reno's voice cracks into a squeak. He doesn't even realize it at first; not until it sets off another round of mocking laughter from his audience.

Hanz raises his hand. The goons go quiet.

"You sure you want me to do that? Because right now that knife is plugging that hole in your leg. If I pull it out, you might just bleed out. Be dead in minutes. You think about that, huh?"

Reno wrings his hands, struggling against the rope. His heart is racing, fueled by a flood of adrenaline. All he sees is that sleek black handle stuck in his leg.

"Nah, you're right," Hanz says. "It's time to get on with this show."

The knife may not have felt like much as it went in, but it's ten times worse coming out. Reno clamps his teeth together, fighting back the scream. He arches so hard that the chair tilts and teeters, but several pair of hands slam into him and push him forward. The impact of the chair shoots fresh agony up his leg, but before he can so much as suck in a breath, a hand grabs his hair and pulls his head back. Hanz looms over him, grinning as he touches the wet blade to Reno's cheek.

"Sorry, kid," he says, grinning as he slides the cold steel higher. "This might sting a bit."

Cold sweat breaks out all over Reno's skin. He knows what Hanz is after.

"No! You sick fuck! Not my fucking eye!"

The tip of the blade digs into Reno's temple. He flinches away, or he tries to, but the fist in his hair is like steel. His legs jerk uselessly, pain flaring through his punctured thigh. He can do nothing but yell and curse as the point begins to cut an arc below the corner of his eye.

"Stop! I'll give you what you want! Fucking _stop_!"

The blade pulls away, followed by the hand in his hair. Reno swallows, trying to fight the nausea that rolls over him in waves. It only helps his blood trickle down his throat from his split lip. He gags and sputters, until Hanz kicks his chair.

"A name."

He tucks the bloodied knife in under Reno's chin and lifts it ever higher. Reno has no choice but to raise his head, until they're face to face again.

"Give me a name," Hanz says absently as he studies the cut he made.

Reno grits his teeth, trying to keep the grimace off his face, because it fucking _hurts_. The slightest motion sends twinges through the broken skin around his eye. Ohh, the bastard is going to pay for this. Reno can still pull it off; he knows it. He can still walk out of here and sic this fucker on that other pack of assholes in Five. That'll serve him right for cutting up Reno's fucking _face_.

"Marcos," he spits. "The guy's name is Marcos."

"He one of Liza's boys?"

"Yeah, over in Five. Now get that knife outta my fucking face!"

Hanz looks him in the eye at last, purses his lips.

"Too late, kid. I gave you a chance to do this the easy way, but you just had to waste my fucking time."

He raises his hand and reaches for Reno's hair. He does it slowly, ever so slowly. Reno can't get away. He knows he can't get away. He tries anyway. He jerks his head back and pushes against the chair as far as he can go.

He can't get away.

Hanz's fingers crawl back over his scalp like the legs of a spider.

"My time ain't cheap, punk. Time to pay up."

Hanz curls his fingers into a fist, latching onto Reno's hair. It's not a quick and decisive move. He pulls his fingers together like a vice, gradually increasing the pressure on the roots, stretching out the moment until Reno's scalp is alight with thousands of pinpricks.

 _This_ is the real price, Reno realizes. He wasted Hanz's time, and now Hanz will _take_ his time as he carves his compensation out of Reno's body.

Should he scream or try to stay quiet? Will it end quicker if he begs, or is Hanz the kind of twisted fuck who'll keep going in the hopes of hearing more?

Reno is staring up at the ceiling now, Hanz's savage grin barely in sight. He flinches as he feels the sting of the metal in his raw wound, hot and cold all at once. He hisses as Hanz adjusts his grip on the knife, digging into the gash. As slowly as he grasped Reno's hair, Hanz pushes the knife forward.

Reno clamps his teeth together, stifling the screams to grunts and whimpers. He does his best to keep his head still, to minimize the damage, but the ropes dig into his wrists as he strains against them. He yelps when the blade catches on bone, scraping his skull just below the eye socket.

Hanz pulls the knife out. Blood spouts out of the wound and down Reno's face and neck, hot against his clammy skin, but he feels a frantic moment of hope. That was it, he thinks. The guy doesn't want his eye after all. It's just scare tactics. He's pulled it off. He'll get out of here in one piece after all.

Hanz chuckles as he wipes the blade on Reno's shoulder.

"You didn't think it'd be that quick, did ya?"

A numbness sinks into Reno as he stares up at Hanz's face. He was wrong. He was so, so wrong. There's nothing he can do. There never was anything he could do.

Hanz will never let him leave this basement alive.

Hanz twists his fist in Reno's hair and wrenches his head further back, then shoves the knife back in. This time, he wriggles it back and forth.

Reno screams.

The door bangs open. With a growl, Hanz lets go of Reno's hair, but his knife tears a bloody gash down Reno's cheek as he whirls around.

Reno's vision blurs. He blinks, but the blood that pours down his face has smeared into his eye. Or maybe he's passing out; people are yelling, but he can't make out any of it. The blood that streams down his bare chest is warm, but he feels cold. He's shivering.

"You're staying right here. Even you should be able to guard a half-dead runt tied to a chair."

Hanz's growling voice sounds like it's coming from another room, even though he's standing right in front of Reno. The other half of the conversation is lost altogether.

"That ain't good enough for you? Maybe you want to clean up your fucking mess? The broom and bucket's right there."

Hanz's voice grows louder and louder. Soon enough, Reno's able to blink away the shadows from his good eye.

"You had one job," Hanz growls. "One. And you let some fucking _kid_ get the drop on you. Be _grateful_ that I'm letting you watch this punk."

He leaves. The audience breaks up and follows their leader out in a muttering jumble. Their heavy footsteps reverberate in Reno's head, in time with the hammering of his pulse.

When he raises his head, only one guy remains. A skinny one, compared to Hanz, but not as skinny as Reno. Older, taller, with the same stubby nose and broad forehead as Hanz. Reno recognizes him: Koze, the younger brother.

The fucker is alone. A spark of something – hope, desperation; who even _cares_ at this point – reignites Reno's will to fight. He got past this prick before. He can do it again.

"You really thought you'd get away with it, didn't you?" Koze scoffs. "Dumb little shit."

But Reno can't do a damned thing while the guy is six feet away. He has to get him closer.

"Was smart enough to sneak past you."

His sad wheezing is nowhere near his usual cocky bravado, but it does the trick, because Koze narrows his eyes and takes a step closer. He bends down and slides a glinting knife out of his boot.

"You know," he drawls, "a buddy of mine got drafted by Shinra a while back. Got his dumb ass sent to Wutai. You know what he told me?" He runs a fingertip along the curve of the blade, his hands dark with grime against the gleaming steel. "That over in Wutai, they cut the balls off their prisoners. One by one."

"Bullshit. How the fuck would that even work?" Reno's words slur as he speaks. He has to do something fast, or pretty soon he won't be doing much of anything at all.

Koze grins.

"How about I show you?"

Reno keeps his eye on the guy's face and his knife, flicking back and forth. Just the one eye, because the other is too blurred with red to be of any use. The rest of him is no fucking use either, shaking from blood loss and exhaustion. How the hell is he going to do this?

"The fuck you staring at?" Koze snarls. "Think I won't do it? Think I'm soft, huh?"

Get him closer. That's the ticket to whatever comes next. Just get him closer.

"What I think? Hell, I'm thinking you just want an excuse to fondle my junk." Reno grins, splitting his lip even more. "Go ahead, fuckface. Make it feel real nice."

Koze's face goes white.

"Think it's a fucking joke?" He lunges at Reno and yanks his head back by the hair, bringing the knife right up to the one good eye he's got left. "I'll cut them off, you little shit! I'll cut your fucking balls off one by–"

Reno kicks out, aiming for the guy's knees as he throws himself sideways. He can't see if he hits his target, but he hits _something_ , because Koze yelps and flails. Reno slams into the ground, and a whole new kind of agony clamps down on his arm like a vice. His vision swims, darkens at the edges. His arm is trapped, crushed between the chair's back and the floor, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it, because he can feel Koze moving, crawling over his leg.

Reno throws his other leg over Koze's waist, hooks one foot around the other and squeezes tight. The guy yells and thrashes and punches Reno's shins. His thigh blazes as if it's on fire, but he doesn't ease up and he doesn't let go. The second he does, he'll be dead. Koze must have dropped the knife, because if he still had it he'd be stabbing, not punching. That's the only reason Reno is still alive. He has to keep this asshole away from the knife.

But Reno is too beat up, too cut up to fight. His foot slips. He twists his hips and kicks his foot back under the other one, but as soon as it's in place, it slides out again. Koze is prepared this time. He frees his arm and rams his elbow straight into Reno's bleeding thigh. Reno's vision explodes in pure white. His muscles lock up with pain, and he _screams_.

When he's able to force his eyes open again, Koze has almost wriggled all the way out of his grasp. He's reaching for the knife. His fingers nudge the handle.

A blast of fear-fueled adrenaline sears through Reno's veins. He locks his legs around Koze's waist and with a yell as raw as his throat, he rolls his whole body around, chair and all. Trapped by his legs, Koze soars over him and slams into one of the wooden supports on the other side. He grunts as he hits the floor and remains still, dazed.

Reno lashes out with his good leg and smashes his heel into Koze's temple. Koze goes limp, but Reno keeps kicking. He drives his foot into the fucker's face again and again, spurred on by fury and terror, until his desperation is utterly spent.

When Reno regains his senses, Koze's head is a pulpy wreck. He stares at it, unable to believe his eyes and unable to look away, until what little he has eaten that day comes rushing back up. It splatters onto the filthy concrete, spreads into the puddle of his own blood.

Reno pushes away from the mess he's made. He only manages a few inches before he's overcome by chills. He lies on the floor, shivering, and his eyes finally brim over. As hot tears spill down his cheek, he thinks of his mother. Gods help him, he thinks of his mother and wonders if this was how she felt at the end.

The rage returns, squeezing his heart in its red-hot claw. He won't end up like her, dead and forgotten and _fucking useless_. He fucking _won't!_ Reno pulls against his binds, he pushes, he lifts himself up only to crash back down again. With a splintering crack, the pressure on his arms gives away. He freezes from sheer surprise. When he tries to move his arms again, he figures it out – one of the spindles in the chair's back has snapped.

It isn't easy to slide himself up along the back to freedom. The wound in his leg flares hotly with every move. His mangled face pulses with every beat of his heart. As if that weren't enough, there's something wrong with the arm he landed on too, because it doesn't respond the way he expects it to. Maybe it's broken.

Once he's free, he looks around the floor. He spots the knife, glinting dully among all the red. Reaching it is no easier than ridding himself of the chair. Worse yet, he has to roll over and fumble blindly with hands tied behind his back. Reno doesn't look at what's left of Koze. He stares up at the stairs instead, at the door that's hidden behind that stub of wall. Not that it makes much of a difference. The stench of blood and puke is enough to make him gag. Good thing he has nothing left in him but bile.

It will pass, Reno knows. It's amazing how much the human nose can get used to.

His fingers nudge cold metal. A few seconds later he holds the knife in his hand.

Reno is too hasty, too sloppy. He jabs his wrists several times and the blood makes the knife slippery, but he doesn't have the time to be careful. He has to get out of here before Hanz returns and sees the mush that Reno made of his baby brother's head.

The rope goes slack. With a whimper of relief, Reno pulls out the hand that grips the knife. His other arm doesn't obey; when he pushes himself up to a sitting position, it lolls heavily at his side, the rope still hanging from his wrist.

Blood wells out of the gash in his thigh. It's not _spraying_ out and he's pretty sure that is a good sign, but that might change once he starts moving. He knots the rope around his leg, a couple of inches above the wound. He has to use his teeth to pull it tight, because his right arm is still numb. He nearly blacks out and he isn't sure if it's the pain or the revolting taste in his mouth; his blood has seeped into the rope, along with fuck knows what else as he writhed on the ground.

His bicep twinges sharply as he feels around the part that was pinned between the chair and the floor. He doesn't find any broken bones, but the arm is useless nonetheless. It's not his dominant hand – but that doesn't mean much when the rest of him is little more than dead weight as it is.

Reluctantly, Reno raises his good hand and touches his cheek. His skin pulses hot, slick with blood. He swallows hard and lets the hand fall. He doesn't need to go higher to know that his face is a sticky, throbbing mess. There's nothing he can do about it. Nothing except get the fuck out of here.

He grabs the chair, uses it for leverage as he pulls himself up. The world goes dark and distant. When his vision clears, he's on the chair, slumped heavily over the back of it while the splintered wood snaps and groans under him. He can't tell if it's been seconds or minutes. Who cares, anyway? He rises again, more carefully this time, and stumbles over to the stairs. A small heap of fabric has been discarded near the steps: his t-shirt and hoodie. The pockets are empty and there's no sign of his backpack or his gear. Reno isn't surprised, but that doesn't stop the surge of bitter anger. _This job was supposed to get you back on your feet._ Now he's got less than when he started. Now he's only got half a face.

Reno grabs his hoodie and gingerly pulls it over his head, taking care not to rub the fabric against his butchered face. His hands shake so badly he has trouble getting them through the arm holes. He tries, he tries again, but fails. He spits and curses, and begins punching his hoodie from the inside. When he finally slings an arm through a sleeve, his chest has seized up and his breaths are shallow gasps. He drops to his hands and knees, gulping down air.

Blood flows into his eye again. He curses and shoves himself back onto his knees, and white-hot claws stab into his thigh. Reno collapses, his body rigid and his mouth wide open in a silent scream.

_"Hey! Koze!"_

The voice is close, Reno realizes through the brutal haze, somewhere above him.

A loud bang. Two of them; three. Someone's at the door.

Gritting his teeth, Reno forces himself to his feet. There's only one place to hide. He hobbles toward the sound and presses himself flat against the wall that encloses the stairs.

Metal slides against metal. A heavy thud sounds on the other side of the door. The guy is coming in.

The throbbing left side of Reno's face keeps scattering his thoughts. With a whimper, he scans the room. He needs a plan, _now!_ He has to _think!_

Okay, so it'll probably go down like this: guy comes in, sees body, rushes in to check on his buddy, leaving his back wide–

No, no. These guys aren't that stupid.

Take two. Guy comes in, sees body, yells for help, a dozen of them rush in and trap Reno in a corner, then gut him and string him up to watch his entrails trickle to the floor.

Yeah. That's more likely.

Reno knows one thing for sure. As soon as the guy clears the wall of the stair he will lay eyes on the body. Reno's window to strike is tiny. How will he even do it? He has a knife and the element of surprise, but where the stump of a wall ends, the stairs come up to his chest. What can he do? Stab the guy in the foot?

The door groans as it opens.

"Yo, Koze! I'm talking to you!"

Reno casts around for something to use, wills his eyes to focus. This stupid fucking basement is empty! There's nothing he can–

His gaze lands on a broom tucked into the corner behind him.

"Koze?"

Boots thump down the stairs. Reno snatches up the broom and spins around, just in time to see Hanz's goon freeze on the stairs. The guy opens his mouth, but Reno drives the broom handle into the guy's chest with all his might, and all that comes out of him is a wheezing grunt. The man flails, pawing at the wall as he falls over the side, and lands head first on the stone floor with a sickening crack.

Reno doesn't stop to check the damage. He clambers onto the stairs and half limps, half drags himself up to the door, leaving a trail of smeared blood along the walls and steps. He pushes the door closed and with a strength that surprises himself, lifts the iron bar propped beside it and heaves it onto the brackets across the door. He means to be quiet, but the bar slips out of his bloody fingers and falls into place with a clang. The door is barred.

Reno pauses to draw a desperate breath, swaying on his feet.

No, wait. _He_ isn't swaying. The whole damned room is spinning.

Reno slumps against the door. He fumbles for the iron bar, but his knees give out before he can get a good grip. He slides to the floor in a graceless heap as darkness creeps back into his eyes.

It feels good, lying down. It feels so damned _good_ to let his eyes fall shut. If he stays like this, just like this, and doesn't move a muscle, it doesn't hurt so much. Maybe... Maybe if he stays still long enough, the pain will go away.

The slam of a door knocks Reno back from the brink of oblivion. He hears voices, loud with triumph and steeped in bravado. Close, and growing closer.

He has to move.

Reno forces his eyes open. Only one of them obeys. The other cracks open in slow-motion, prying apart lids glued to each other with congealing blood.

He looks away from the approaching voices and finds stacked wooden crates. Through a gap in them, he thinks he sees stairs. His vision is too blurry for him to be sure, but he grits his teeth and pushes himself off the ground.

He makes it around the crates. What he saw are stairs, he confirms as he collapses onto them. He doesn't know what awaits him at the top, only that they lead away from the voices. That's good enough for him.

As he drags himself up, one excruciating step at a time, the chatter behind him turns into shouts of dismay. He must have left a puddle of blood where he lay. The basement door clangs open, followed by the wooden thumps of booted feet. Reno clenches his jaw, struggles harder. If they've all gone down to the basement, he might have a few more minutes.

The stairs end at an open door. He pauses in the doorway, grasping at the frame for support. The room is dark and large enough that he can't see the other end. It's quiet, though, and Reno has only one way forward. He stumbles inside, dragging himself past sagging cardboard boxes and sunken mattresses. Piles of clothes are strewn between the makeshift beds. A pair of boots, a few bottles, greasy boxes of pizza. Nothing that would make a better weapon than the knife in his hand.

The other end of the room sways into view. It's just a wall. A flat, empty wall. Reno stops in his tracks, looks around in a panic. There are no other doors. The windows are useless. He can't climb like this.

As he turns, he sees the blood on the floor, on the doorframe he leaned on. He's leaving a trail. They'll find him, because he has nowhere to hide, nowhere else to run. Reno limps back the way he came and slumps against the wall beside the doorway.

He hears heavy boots running on the floor below, feels the vibrations under his feet as they thunder up the steps. He squeezes the knife tighter, raises his trembling hand. The best he can hope for now is to take a few of them with him before they rip him apart.

A massive man bursts through the door, his face set in an ugly grimace. Hanz, Reno recognizes as he slashes down. The knife catches the man's arm, but there's no strength behind the strike; the blade slices through skin but little else. Hanz roars and rounds on Reno, fist high and flying. By some miracle, Reno dodges the first blow, but before he can recover, Hanz's other fist cracks into his ribs. He drops like a sack of stones.

Something grabs the front of his hoodie and pulls it tight around his chest, _too fucking tight_ , and the world spins. When it stops, a face is inches from his own. Hanz's face, twisted up with hate. Tears streak the smears of blood on his cheeks. Reno wonders if it's Koze's or his own.

Then the face flies away from him – no, _Reno_ is the one being flung, right across the room. His back hits something hard, which shatters from his weight into a thousand glittering pieces, and he's weightless again, flying through the cold night air. The ground rushes up at him and he plunges into darkness.

When Reno stirs, it's with a mouth full of blood. He spits and coughs, which becomes a desperate gasp for air as the pain grips his lungs. Shadows have swallowed the edges of his vision, but still he picks out movement through the gloom. Something is coming toward him – no, some _one_. A man, kicking up a spray of mud with every heavy step.

Hanz.

Reno sputters, spits out the filth that's oozed between his lips. Maybe it's his own lungs he's choking on, because he sure can't breathe. He rolls onto his back, but that's it. That's all he can do. He flails in the mud, trying to drag himself backwards as his tormentor looms over him, switchblade ready in hand. Hanz's blade, the one he used to carve up Reno's face. The one he'll use to finish the job.

It happens in the blink of an eye. Hanz jerks and a spray of blood shoots out from his neck. Hot little droplets spatter Reno's face as the man collapses to his knees. Hanz paws at his neck and opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a guttural gurgle that sends more blood spurting through his fingers. He falls forward and lands face first in the muck.

"Boss!"

Reno looks over to the house just in time to see one of Hanz's goons fall with a wordless shout. The man yells and swears as he crawls backward toward the open door, clutching his bleeding chest. Another rushes out of the house toward him, but is abruptly knocked back and hits the ground without a sound.

Reno's hands slide in the mud as he pushes himself up. His chest doesn't feel right but he keeps pushing, because _he has to_. His fingers brush something solid as he struggles. He wraps them around it, half on instinct, half in desperation. It's the handle of Hanz's switchblade.

He hears more yelling behind him, something about snipers and cover, but he doesn't stop to listen, doesn't stop to think and wonder. He shoves his broken body out of the muck and careens toward the nearest wall. Half-blind, clawing at the wall and dragging his limp leg behind him, Reno stumbles into the night.

* * *

 

Tseng has the train car to himself. It's a private car, reserved for high-ranking Shinra employees, and few of them are top-bound at this hour of the evening.

Tseng uses the quietude to mull the events of the evening. He'd had a tipoff that one of his persons of interest had a perilous job lined up for the evening; a job most would have turned down flat. Tseng was curious enough to come below plate and observe it in person.

The kid had long been an unknown quantity. A troublemaker. Elimination would perhaps have been the prudent course of action, the first time he had meddled in Shinra's affairs, but Tseng had opted for tag-and-release. When Hanz's gang captured the kid, Tseng expected to be relieved of that particular headache. No one leaves Hanz's basement in one piece, after all.

Always a meticulous man, Tseng stuck around to confirm the inevitable. To see the kid's body with his own eyes. Yet when the body appeared, it was still very much alive and kicking.

Remarkable.

Remarkable enough for Tseng to take out several members of a minor gang and discreetly ensure his target made it to a doctor – or what passed for one, here below the plate.

Tseng brings out his PHS and places a call.

"Sir? I would like to discuss a potential recruit."


End file.
